The Dragon Keeper (26 page)

“Everyone tells me this isn’t bad weather for this time of year”—Dr. Reading gestured to the people flanking her, including Gerald Dawson and Antonio—“but I flew in from Costa Rica a week ago, where it’s just a few degrees below boiling.”

Apparently because she’d been studying the predatory habits and population density of jaguars, everyone at the zoo was supposed to kiss her ass for dropping the project to come help them. And that was another thing: going from jaguars to Komodo dragons? Most zoologists and biologists found an ecosystem or particular fauna that called to them and dedicated their lives to becoming experts in their chosen area, but Dr. Joyce Reading eco-hopped her way around the globe looking for the next high-profile assignment, writing books comparing the great white shark to the T. Rex that rocketed up the best-seller lists, narrating Omni theater documentaries, and speaking at black-tie fundraisers in her spare time.

Meg would have been anywhere else on the property, shoveling shit, wrestling the alligator—hell, even reading her in-box—rather than lurking behind the Channel 12 van in the front parking lot, but they were talking about Jata. It wasn’t just some random animal on the poster this week; it was
her
animal, and they hadn’t told her anything outside the standard lines. We’re working on it. We’re just hypothesizing right now. There’s nothing concrete to say. We can’t assume anything at this point.

She wouldn’t have even known about the press conference this morning if she hadn’t started waiting for Chuck outside his office every day after she punched in. He was a douche, but he was a well-informed douche. Details just dripped off that handy clipboard.

“You aren’t going, Megan,” he’d warned. “Even appearing there would lead to questions that you know you are prohibited from answering. It’s just a formality, to address the influx of calls and e-mails.”

“Yeah, like I want to be anywhere near that circus.” A quick sneer was all it really took to shrug off his suspicious stare, and twenty minutes before the conference began she snuck out through the shipping and receiving dock to wait in her car. As long as no one on staff spotted her, she was fine. Maybe Chuck was being honest and this whole thing was just a formality, but she wasn’t going to take his word for it, not after she’d been shut out of all the meetings and research.

As Dr. Reading ran through the usual explanation of parthenogenesis, Meg paced back and forth, watching the cameramen film the podium with the huge Zoo of America sign blazing behind it in all its red, white, and bald-eagle glory. Standing next to Dr. Reading, chest out, shoulders squared, looking as if he’d waited his whole life to get there, was Antonio.

He wore a suit, probably the same suit he’d worn at the reception, but that was so long ago now, another life even, when she’d been too distracted trying to soothe and listen to him than to pay attention to what the hell he was wearing. Here, though, it was the only thing to see. His lab coat was gone, and he wasn’t holding any papers or folders or stethoscopes. The suit just swallowed him up in shades of tar and ash, and from way back here he almost looked like a pallbearer. That was fine. She didn’t want to get any closer, to see how the designer lines were probably tailored to his body or how he basked in the attention of the media.

Dr. Reading opened the podium for questions, and the protestors were the first topic thrown up from the crowd.

“We deeply regret the CCCR’s decision to boycott the zoo.” Gerald Dawson stepped in to comment. “There is simply no way we can address their concerns. Jata is a beloved animal at this institution, and she has no more invited the apocalypse than any other mother on this planet. That is all we have to say on the matter.”

“Has the boycott affected the zoo’s plans for the young dragons?”

“Not in the least. We’ve received an unprecedented number of bids on these extraordinary hatchlings coming in from all parts of the globe, most of them after the CCCR’s announcement.” Gerald gestured around them as if the world fit into the parking lot.

“Is it mostly other American zoos?” a reporter asked.

“The majority are, yes, but we’ve had offers from Europe—Amsterdam and Dublin, I believe—and even as far away as Indonesia.”

Meg kept pacing. Chuck had filled her in on most of the bidders, the ones he knew of anyway, and she’d started surfing their websites on breaks, measuring each of them up and taking notes on their climate, facilities, staff, the usual. The hatchlings weren’t going to be shipped off to some half-assed menagerie that happened to wave the biggest check.

“How has this happened? You just said it was impossible for Komodos to have female offspring by parthenogenesis.” Another reporter, with the ten-billion-dollar question.

“We have put forth a number of hypotheses at this point but can propose no conclusions without extensive scientific research.” Antonio leaned over Gerald and took control of the microphone. “Dr. Reading and I will be heading a cross-functional research team here at the Zoo of America in collaboration with the National Wildlife Foundation and the University of Minnesota. A number of prominent biologists, geneticists, and ecologists will work together to test and research the various hypotheses that have been brought forward.”

As Dr. Reading outlined the various theories for the female hatchlings, her gaze panned to Meg, and she cocked her head and squinted. Meg ducked behind the van, heart pounding. The cold metal numbed her back, and she slid down until her butt hit the rear bumper. Dr. Reading couldn’t have ID’d her, not fifty feet away in under a second. Shivering, Meg stayed out of sight as she continued listening.

“But how would you test any of those theories?” Meg recognized the voice of Nicole Roberts.

“Blood tests, DNA experimentation, computer modeling. Technology affords our team a number of options that would have been impossible twenty years ago. Believe me, I would have loved to have had some of these resources when I was proposing new migratory patterns for released golden eagles in the 1970s.” After an obvious pause for the required laughter, Dr. Reading continued. “But I believe that the most compelling evidence is always gathered at the source. To fully understand the reproductive system of this Komodo, we will need to perform some medical procedures on the animal. X-rays and echoes, of course, as well as some more invasive but completely safe procedures that will enlighten our path to … ”

Meg didn’t hear anything after that. The blood roared in her ears, the same hissing that chased her awake from the ocean of her dreams. Invasive procedures.

They wanted to take Jata apart.

31 Days
after
Hatching

W
hat she couldn’t get over was how Jata’s new exhibit had a false veneer of summer. When she’d supervised the concrete basin of the pool being poured less than two months ago, or the parade of dump trucks hauling dirt, trees, and thick slabs of glass, it had been hard to sit back and soak up the façade. Even though the freshly planted grasses and shrubs around the enclosure were as real as the oak trees flanking the giant, metal wing of the Bird Kingdom across the pond, they looked like AstroTurf against the oaks’ barely budding May branches.

Standing outside the glass looking in, no one would notice the disparity. All they would see was a tropical savannah housing a giant dragon, a brushstroke of the place where they imagined this animal actually lived and hunted and played and died. They stopped. Said,
Oh, look at that
, then moved to the next brushstroke.

The world was entirely different on the other side of the glass, where the ventilated, plucked, pruned, and crafted environment was eclipsed by the stark and messy reality of things. From here, Meg saw the shadow box for what it was.

She gazed through the window of the newly installed keeper’s door, squinting painfully into the sun. Jata lay behind the far basking rock, head down and legs spread, as if she were hiding from the constant crowds. She had become more antisocial—Meg had recorded that in the logs—choosing to spend most of her indoor exhibit days in her cave, away from the cacophony of visitors. There was no cave out here, though. The outdoor space exposed her completely, except for a line of long grasses Meg had planted to simulate the Komodo’s natural hunting terrain. Today Jata’s tail curled around the edge of the basking rock and disappeared into those grasses. The stalks waved only a foot and a half off the ground, but in the wild it was all the height Jata would’ve needed to hide from approaching prey. Did she know that instinctually, despite her lifelong captivity? Meg half-smiled. Maybe a stray bird would somehow flutter through the ventilation system someday, so she could observe Jata’s predatory skills.

“Meg, we need to talk.”

Her sun-baked cheeks went stiff; it was amazing how quickly skin could go cold. Antonio walked down the hallway, his footsteps making hollow and urgent pings on the concrete floor. The lab coat was back today, but she wasn’t fooled by it anymore.

“No, forget it. We needed to talk a week ago. You needed to tell me what you and Dr. Reading were plotting.”

Dropping the bucket of chicken on the floor, she slammed open the keeper closet, grabbed a pair of leather gloves, and yanked them on.

“You’re right. I should have—”

“But you didn’t. Not even a word in the hallway. I had to find out about your plans for medical experiments at a goddamn press conference.”

He stopped short, as if he’d seen the wall coming and smacked into it anyway. Shaking his head, he watched her slam around the closet. “Honestly? I didn’t tell you because I knew you would act like this.”

“Like what? Like I wouldn’t let you touch her with a ten-foot pole after this?” She gave up the pretense of looking for something and squared up, leveling him with a glare.

“Yeah, like an overreacting bitch.”

“I get a little cranky when someone wants to cut apart my animals.” She propped her fists on her hips, and he mirrored her, taking a step closer.

“It’s highly unlikely that surgery will be our first method of study.”

“First?” She spit it out. “As in, you’ll get around to it eventually, whenever you and your precious Dr. Reading get too bored with frog plasma and giving speeches?”

“We’re talking about a fucking miracle, Meg! Sexual animals can’t spontaneously reproduce. Not like this. You knew we were going to have to look at Jata’s physiology, so don’t act stupid. I know you better than that.”

“Sure you do. You’ve got everything and everyone figured out, don’t you?”

He plowed ahead, not listening. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. No scientist could ask for better circumstances to study this phenomenon. She’s contained. Her history is completely documented. We have a five-year record of her blood pressure, for God’s sake. She’s on my watch now. You’re going to have to trust me with her, and you should know by now that I’m not going to let anything bad happen to her on my operating table.”

“You don’t have control over that!” she shouted, inches from his face. “Get it through your head. You can’t control her or what happens to her any more than I can. How can you stand there and call something a miracle and then claim to be able to dissect it? What do you think that makes you?”

She whirled around and grabbed the feeding bucket. Gemma, who must have come from the opposite end of the hallway, stood a few feet away with her mouth open and features frozen in shock.

“Are you ready?” Meg demanded.

“Not quite.” Gemma crept between them and pulled on the safety boots and gloves. Antonio leaned across Gemma’s hunched back.

“If you don’t trust me, then fine, but Joyce is a legendary biologist. She understands the circumstances and has the pull that it takes to get the resources we need for this research. She was my mentor. For Christ’s sake, she studied under Jane Goodall.”

Gemma, up to speed now, winked at Meg through her honey-colored bangs and muttered, “I bet Jane Goodall hated that bitch.”

“Stay out of it, Gemma,” he said.

“Actually, she can’t stay out of it. She’s assisting me with the feeding today.” Meg shook the bucket at his face. “Remember the animal that you’re taking such great fucking care of? Yeah, she needs to eat.”

“Fine. No problem.” He stripped off his lab coat. “I’ll assist you.”

“Piss off, Antonio. We’re done here.”

“We’re nowhere near done.” His eyes were bright, like coal right before the flame catches, and they focused in on her with brutal intensity. And that’s when she realized it was still there. The pull, riding his tight, angry shoulders, drawing him into her. The excitement, twisting her gut and responding, God, jumping to return the anger, the heat. Despite everything that had happened in the last week and a half, despite the fact that the sane part of her wanted to kill him right now and feed him to the shark exhibit, that gut-sucking, heart-pounding attraction was still alive, tugging at her, humiliating her.

No. Not this, Antonio. Not now. She unlocked the exhibit door and stumbled through it just to get away and breathe.

Sunlight blinded her. Shouts and happy chatter filtered through the edges of the glare. People. Right. There were people waiting to watch her feed Jata. She blinked and shielded her eyes with a shaking leather glove. Antonio appeared beside her, pulling on work gloves.